He remembered the night by the scent of her hair.
Warm. Clean. Faintly herbal, like the old temple courtyards after rain.
Her breath had been soft against his collarbone, steady and unaware. Her body tucked into his side, bone and curve and heat beneath linen. He hadn't meant to hold her that long. Or that tightly.
But something in him had unraveled when she'd leaned into him without fear.
He'd never known restraint to hurt so much.
She was not the sort of beautiful men spoke of in drunken halls or in ballads — not a storm, not a flame.
She was quiet beauty.
The kind that unraveled slowly — in the curve of her neck as she turned from him, the stillness in her hands when she poured tea, the shadow of a dimple that never quite formed unless she laughed. She had eyes like dusk — not bright, but deep. Knowing. And far too often now, they did not look at him anymore.
Her hair, always pinned with care, reminded him of twilight silk, the way it caught the light when she walked past the veranda. He remembered the scent of her — jasmine, or perhaps something native to her province — something foreign and familiar all at once. It lingered long after she left a room.
But what disarmed him most was not her face, or her voice, or even the way she wore grief like a second crown — it was the way she never asked to be seen.
She simply was.
A presence that demanded reverence, not attention. A woman who made silence feel like language, and distance feel like punishment.
And perhaps that was why he kept his distance — because if he let himself near her long enough… he feared he would kneel.
Not as a king.
But as a man.
That night had broken every distance he'd fought to maintain. Her softness, her warmth — it had burned through the armor he'd worn since the war. Since the coronation rebellion. Since the day he told himself he could only protect her by keeping her at arm's length.
He hadn't planned to marry her.
When her kingdom trembled under rebel threat, he rode with his best men — swift and without permission. Because the thought of her dying, alone and surrounded, was unbearable. When the nobles circled like vultures demanding she wed into their ranks, he offered his hand. Not because it was politically wise — though it was. Not because her father had once sworn their houses as kin — though he had.
But because the idea of another man calling her his… made him sick.
He had known her since childhood. Knew how she would trail two steps behind during summer festivals, trying to match his longer stride. How she would tug him into inventor stalls and lecture him about strange devices she barely understood. How she would sneak fruit from merchant carts just to make him laugh — and then offer to pay double when he scolded her.
She had been sunlight then.
And now?
Now she was a woman cloaked in frost. And he was the man who had driven her into the cold.
He told himself his distance was mercy. That kings could not afford softness, and she deserved better than the storm he had become. If he just won enough treaties, secured enough trade, quelled every threat — perhaps he could free her. Perhaps she would marry again. Choose someone kind.
But the truth—
The truth was that he wanted no one else to have her. Not in marriage. Not in name. Not in breath or body or glance.
And still, he had left her.
He'd ridden out for the hunt like a man escaping fire — fleeing the heat he felt when her eyes lingered too long. When her silence begged to be broken. When her wrist bore the mark of how tightly he had pulled her into him.
He had kissed the edge of love that night. And recoiled.
He promised himself he would return and make it right. Explain. Apologize. Ask — not command — for a second chance.
But he was too late.
The rider came at dawn, drenched in sweat and urgency.
His Queen had gone.
No royal retinue. No guards. No fanfare.
Vanished.
Casian's fingers tightened around the reins of his stallion as he read the steward's seal.
"She left before the sun rose," the messenger said. "They say the Queen Dowager gave her blessing. There were no banners. Only her house crest."
Casian turned without a word.
He rode hard — too hard. Through pine and snow, branches clawing at his arms, the wind tearing through his cloak. His stallion protested, nostrils flaring, foam lacing the bit. But he drove forward, spurred by something wild and rising in his chest.
The world blurred.
His horse skidded just short of a boulder on a narrow bend, reared back with a furious cry, and Casian was thrown.
His shoulder struck hard earth. The wind left his lungs.
Snow clung to his lashes as he lay stunned, staring up at the pale sky — empty, endless.
Then came the pain.
He rolled to his side, blood seeping from his knuckles, his ribs aching. But none of it matched the split inside him.
He staggered to his feet. Punched the pine trunk nearest to him until bark split and his hand bled again. Still, it wasn't enough.
He roared.
Not her name.
Just rage.
Rage at himself.
She had left without asking. Without waiting.
He should have expected it. She was not a woman to sit idle in pain.
And yet, he had hoped.
He leaned against the tree, his forehead pressed to the bark, breathing like a man drowning.
He had wanted her to stay.
But he'd given her no reason to.
He remembered how she used to look at him — before the distance, before the silences. How her eyes lit when he arrived at her city gates as a boy. How she once said, "You always bring the storm with you."
She had said it fondly then.
And now… now she had weathered him too long.
Casian clenched his jaw, snow dusting the edges of his cloak, blood dripping to the ground.
He would return to the palace.
He would tear through the quiet and the court and the useless etiquette.
Because she was not just his Queen.
She was the only thing that ever made him want to stay still.
And he had let her go.
He remembered something his mother once said — quietly, too quietly — during a council night after the Queen had fallen ill from fasting. They had been alone by the fire, the Dowager's voice low with something that had sounded like warning.
"Tell me truthfully, Casian," she said. "Did you marry her to protect her kingdom… or because you couldn't bear to see her belong to someone else?"
He hadn't answered.
And now… the question rang like a judgment.
Because if he had said it aloud — even once — it would have shattered every excuse he built. Every lie that said distance was duty. That silence was strategy. That neglect was protection.
He had not made her safer.
He had made her disappear.
That night he returned to camp. Sat alone in the war room, the maps on the table long forgotten. Candles burned low. His officers had long since cleared the hall after he snapped — at no one in particular, at everyone. He had no appetite for strategy. Not tonight.
Because she had left.
And he'd done nothing to stop her.
He dragged a hand down his face, jaw tight, breath shallow. It wasn't anger burning in him now. It wasn't duty.
It was something else.
A silence louder than any battle drum.
She was gone. And all the carefully laid plans — securing borders, suppressing threats, deferring affection until everything was safe — had crumbled into ash. He had tried to make her safe by keeping her distant.
But she had never needed safety.
She needed to be seen.
He rose abruptly from the chair, the wooden legs scraping sharply against the stone. The chamber stilled.
He looked down at the seal again, then out the window, toward the horizon still pink with morning.
Then, he spoke words that weren't loud — but were final.
"Prepare the horses. I'm going after her."